Chapter 269 – The True Whereabouts of the Locket
No one except Alexander Smith knew what truly happened the moment Harry destroyed the locket.
At that instant, as Harry's radiant holy magic collided with the dark, chaotic essence within the Horcrux, a long, pale hand suddenly reached out from within the shattered darkness—grasping the locket.
In the very next second, an identical locket appeared out of thin air, clattering onto the floor of the boiler room in the Black family's old house at Grimmauld Place.
Even from Harry's perspective, he believed he had purified the Horcrux completely.
But three hours later—
Nottingham Forest, the Smith family's castle.
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"You'll regret this!" hissed a voice from the locket in Alexander's hand.
"I'm still alive! The great Dark Lord is still alive!"
The locket had opened, and through the two small glass windows, a pair of eyes glared out—filled with the fear and defiance of one who had barely escaped destruction.
"Hey, are you Voldemort?"
The sudden, curious voice startled the Horcrux. He turned toward it, eyes narrowing.
A short witch stood a few paces away—Kate. Seeing her, the Horcrux relaxed slightly. Her magic wasn't particularly strong; she had the aura of a young student. Her silver eyes, however, seemed oddly clear… and unsettling.
Still, he thought, a mere child.
As for how he'd escaped Harry's spell—perhaps it was due to an uncharted anomaly in magic itself. After all, Harry Potter was also one of his Horcruxes—an unprecedented living Horcrux. The collision between two connected yet repulsive souls might well have triggered this strange reappearance.
Yet there was something deeply wrong. He realized he could not read this girl's mind—the way he once easily invaded the thoughts of Weasleys or Malfoys. It was as if her mind was shielded by some unseen force.
And when he accidentally referred to himself as the "Dark Lord," the name Voldemort sparked no recognition in her at all. It was as if the very memory of him had been erased from her world.
"Hello, my name is Tom," said the Horcrux smoothly, adopting a charming tone. "And you are?"
"My name is Kate. And… what are you?" she asked, head tilted.
"I'm not a thing," he snapped, then caught himself. "I mean, I am… a memory."
"Ohh," Kate nodded thoughtfully. "So that's how you got here."
"This is my home," she said curiously. "But why are you hiding in that box?"
"I was… exiled," said the Horcrux, voice low and seductive. "During a magical accident—something similar to Apparition gone wrong. You see, I hold many secrets, secrets people would kill to possess…"
He smiled inwardly, confident that his charisma would soon draw her in. Once she touched the locket, he would drain her life, regain a physical body, and eventually replace the original.
He had seduced even the daughter of Ravenclaw's founder centuries ago—what chance did this little witch have?
"Come closer," he coaxed softly. "Hold the locket. I'll show you."
Kate's silver eyes sparkled with innocent curiosity. "Oh, that sounds fun!" she said, taking a small step forward.
But before her hand could touch the locket—
"Kate, that's enough."
A calm voice spoke from behind her, resonating with a boundless, almost divine power.
The Horcrux froze. His entire being trembled instinctively in terror.
Why… why did I forget? he thought frantically. I already introduced myself earlier! She even asked if I was the Dark Lord!
He tried to turn toward the voice, but his soul screamed in protest. Every instinct told him that to look upon that power was to cease existing.
Impossible! How could a mere wizard—one whose name I do not even know—instill fear in me, the soul of the greatest wizard of this age?!
"Is this the food that will help Jerry grow up?" Kate asked innocently.
"Yes, Kate," said Alexander Smith, stepping forward, his tone calm but absolute.
"Hello there," Alexander said, gazing at the trembling Horcrux. "So you're Voldemort's Horcrux."
"I possess the knowledge of the greatest wizard alive," the Horcrux stammered. "I know things no one else in this world does. Whoever you are, that creature—'Jerry'—must be some magical familiar. Release me, and I will tell you everything I know."
As Voldemort's fragment, he inherited not only his knowledge—but also his fear of death.
Facing Alexander's overwhelming presence, the Horcrux dared not act proud.
But Alexander only smiled faintly.
"No," he said coldly. "Jerry is more important."
"Meow~"
A small, contented purr echoed through the room.
The Horcrux's vision blurred. His instinct screamed—this was death.
He turned his gaze and saw the source: a tiny black kitten, no larger than a palm. But its eyes burned with inner flame.
That's not a cat! the Horcrux realized in horror. That's… Fiendfyre! The spirit of Fiendfyre itself!
"No—stay away! Don't come closer!" he tried to scream, but no sound emerged.
The kitten approached leisurely. In his final moment, the Horcrux saw a pink, barbed tongue flick out—
And everything went dark.
From Alexander and Kate's perspective, Jerry the kitten merely walked up to the locket and licked it. The eerie eyes behind the glass vanished instantly.
Jerry had grown slightly larger. He gave a satisfied "meow," then rubbed affectionately against Alexander's leg.
"Alexander, was that Voldemort?" Kate asked, looking both curious and disappointed. "Why didn't you keep him to play with?"
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Kate… what do you think Voldemort actually is?"
"The most dangerous and terrifying dark wizard in the nineteenth—no, in all of wizarding history!" she said proudly.
Alexander sighed. "What about Grindelwald, then?"
"Was Grindelwald a dark wizard?" Kate looked genuinely puzzled. "He just… failed, didn't he?"
Alexander chuckled. "Kate, you should be able to tell from Voldemort's obsession with creating Horcruxes how ignorant and cowardly he really was. Splitting one's soul to cheat death…"
He shook his head. "It's pathetic."
As the descendant of Death itself, Tom Riddle was born to be one of the noble lineages of the afterlife. Even if death is said to be equal, the souls of men still carry hierarchy—and Tom, a direct descendant of the Gaunt line, should have been among the highest.
And yet, he feared death more than anyone.
"Tom Riddle," Alexander murmured, "you were born with the right to command death—and yet you tore apart your soul in fear of it. How ignorant. How ironic."
Perhaps, he thought, when Voldemort finally faces death, he will understand.
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(End of Chapter 269)
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